


Ramsay Snow's Assassin Just Wants a Quiet Life

by Anonymous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: Gen, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, This is trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 11:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12189033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/





	Ramsay Snow's Assassin Just Wants a Quiet Life

_ Dreadfort _

 

The girl had beautiful hands. That was the important bit. The ritual even specified it. Not careworn or callused; hands that had never seen an honest day's work. A noble's hands. Ramsay carefully filed the girl's right thumbnail to a perfect white arc as she sobbed, her eyes uncomprehending. She'd been expecting to be used, clearly- given his reputation it was a sensible assumption to make, but he had only gone as far as to strip her of her dress and tie her up before he manicured her nails. 

 

It was a shame, as she was pretty, but the parchment had been notably silent on the subject of virtue, and Ramsay Snow wasn't taking any chances with the ritual. Not after he had taken such a risk obtaining it from the Citadel, along with the ring that had accompanied it. If his father discovered him, no- if Robb Stark discovered him as a contender in the Throne War, it would all be over. He was a no-one- a bastard child of a minor noble house, and the magic that ran in his blood was nowhere near as potent as that of a Lannister or a Targaryen. His only chance of winning was anonymity. Of being overlooked. And for that, he needed Assassin.

 

Ramsay idly scratched one of his cats behind the ears as it sniffed at the sobbing girl, and it padded away. Left unsupervised, any one of the big felines would eat her alive, but he'd had his hunt recently, and they had been fed, so the few of them that shared his chambers lay languid by the fireplace, watching with the feigned disinterest in which most cats held most things. 

 

"Lord Snow," she whimpered, her voice cracking at the edges. "W-what are you doing?" Her fear was delicious, like the sweet wine from Dorne, and any other day he would have revelled in it. Rolled in it. Held her by the neck, and breathed in the fear from her hair as one of his cats ate from her soft, milk-white stomach. Not tonight, though. The ritual was specific about the manner of the death. 

Ramsay stroked a tear from the girl's cheek with his thumb, and she froze, shivering, like a frightened animal facing down his cats for the first time. Her family name was Forrester. What had her given name been? Primrose? Violet?

 

"Shush now, Bluebell," said Ramsay, brushing the girl's hair away from her face as he hooked an arm around her waist and led her, staggering with bound feet, to the ritual circle on the floor of his bedchamber. He'd bade Maester Andaris to check it and double check it, and the old man had, before Ramsay had set the cats on him. Ramsay put his hand on the girl's shoulder, pushing her down to her knees, and when she noticed the circle around her feet, she began to struggle again, pulling away from him. 

"Hey now," said Ramsay, his voice almost singsong, and he caught her chin in his hand, squeezing her jaw. Not hard, but hard enough to hurt her a little. Hard enough that her eyes, her ugly, puff-red eyes, rolled round to look at him. He smiled at her- his best smile- the smile of a cat who has pinned its prey under its paw. "You can scream now, if you want, sweetheart," he said. She did.

 

It was a scream without words, a stupid, animal scream. A scream that made his lazy cats twitch their ears and look at him scornfully through half-lidded eyes. A desperate scream, a scream that made Ramsay shiver as he slid a hand over her collarbones, feeling the vibration that rang through her pretty, white neck. What god had made women, to make their skin so soft? He was behind her now, pinning her legs with his knees, and he glanced down to check she was totally in the circle before he closed his eyes, slid his hand around her neck, and squeezed. Her next scream was much quieter as she struggled to get the air out, the pulse in her neck surging against his fingers as he clamped down on her throat.

 

Ramsay said the words as he did it. He had never learned High Valyrian, so he said them by rote. He'd planned to chant them like a Septon saying a service, but strangling was hard, physical work, and the chant came out in bursts, with Ramsay breathing hard between, the muscles on his arms standing out like cords. He pulled the girl against him as he felt her pulse weaken, murmuring the final verses of the incantation into her lank, tear-wet hair. He wasn't sure why, but it felt right somehow, like something the magic wanted. She stopped trying to breathe, going limp in his arms, and then her pulse weakened and stopped. Ramsay waited a few moments longer than that, hands still tight around her neck. Waited until he was sure she was dead, his lips still moving in the final line of the chant. He couldn't afford to mess this up, not now. Finally, he was sure, and he let the body sag, lifeless.

 

Ramsay pulled the ruby ring from his pocket, and slipped it over the girl's finger as he repeated the final verse of the incantation, the one not in high Valyrian, but in another, language, one wholly alien to Ramsay. The circle crackled and glowed, the lettering seeming to detach and float in the air. There was a noise like thunder, and Ramsay felt a sharp pain on the back of his right hand as a seal began to form.

 

Ramsay spoke his servant's name.

 

_ "Yoshikage Kira." _

 

Ramsay spoke his servant's name, and he appeared, a shadow first, and then a man. 

 

The man looked almost Dothraki, save for his pale skin, his features angular and handsome, and his musculature broad. His hair was golden, and his eyes were a striking purple, like Ramsay had always imagined Targaryen eyes to be. He bent down, and took the girl by the hand. The rest of her seemed to dissolve into blackness, and he cradled the hand and forearm, his expression almost beatific as he lifted it to his lips, and kissed the fingers. 

 

Ramsay breathed in slowly. He was grinning, he realised. He could feel the magical bond between him and the Servant, the mana flowing from him like a river. Kira must be supremely powerful, just as the parchment had promised. He stepped forward, and Kira eyed him up, holding the hand against his chest in an almost protective gesture.

 

"Who are you?" asked Kira, one eyebrow arched. "Who summons me as their servant, their Assassin?"

 

"My name is Ramsay," said Ramsay, his voice low. "The Red Helm. Bastard of House Bolton and Castellan of the Dreadfort."


End file.
